


The Space Within

by levitatethis



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-11
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Ariadne, trusting herself is the real test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Space Within

_“Just go on dancing with me like this forever, Garraty, and I’ll never tire. We’ll scrape our shoe on the stars and hang upside down from the moon.”_   
**-The Long Walk by Richard Bachman (aka Stephen King) **

“We’re out of time.”

Ariadne turns to see Arthur pointing the gun at her. Before she can blink the shot explodes through the breath of silence. A split second of pain coupled with the fear of death cracks through her body, then she’s awake with one large gasp of air.

Sitting up, she rolls her head to the side and meets Arthur’s gaze. There’s a faint hint of concern etched in the lines across his forehead, otherwise he simply appears pacified to see her awake.

It should be of concern that he never hesitates to shoot her in a dream. Some days it does. Most days it doesn’t. A job is a job is a job. She knew what she was eventually signing up for and dove in anyway.

She wonders what that says about her.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

“Do it again.”

Exasperated, Ariadne pushes back her chair, scraping it loudly across the floor. The noise echoes loudly in the near empty space. Tossing her pencil to the desk, she glares at Cobb who, in turn, looks unaffected by (what he must perceive as) her petulance. Just beyond her peripheral vision she senses Arthur, sitting at his own workstation organizing detailed notes for their newest job, watching them.

This is the first time she’s seen Cobb since the Fischer job. _Correction_—this is the first time she’s _worked_ with him since then. She’s seem him twice in the interim, visited him as Mile’s guest, even met his kids. The Cobb she was greeted with then was a revelation. She’d never seen him smile that much, been so relaxed, been quite that content. In the vaguest way, the kind that comes with being too far removed from a situation, but having enough tattered bits of scattered information to string a picture together, she can appreciate the toll his life with Mal, their family, and the hole left with her loss has taken. As odd as it was, it was nice to see him _happy_ for once.

She hadn’t counted on the void left behind when he walked away from ‘inception.’ It wasn’t until she got a call almost out of the blue from Arthur (_almost_, since they’d taken to meeting up every few weeks to talk—about new, slightly less nerve wracking and invasive jobs; about themselves, filled with plenty of innuendo but nothing more since that one and only kiss; the two of them too professional to go beyond innocent flirting, even if the want deep inside kept getting stronger) saying Cobb was back with a job from Saito, a big one that might require her to go in with them.

Ariadne hasn’t been into a dream for work since Fischer. She’s done her own dreamscaping in her own mind on her own time, with and without the aid of machines, since then. And on occasion she’s done preliminary testing with Arthur and an extractor, as well as a forger (occasionally Eames, once in a blue moon not, but she prefers Eames because he’s brilliant at what he does and brings a certain delectation to the job, mostly needling Arthur), but usually she stays away from going under, _inside_, for business purposes.

She loves the act of creating, building, restructuring and reconfiguring. She’s learned to see beyond expected limits. Yet as thrilling as it is, it’s also work. Hard work. If anything is off, _everything_ is at risk. If she doesn’t exceed her own expectations she gets frustrated, but she doesn’t always know where meeting expectations ends and surpassing them begins. She’s been missing a much needed touchstone.

Until now.

Cobb has just discarded the fourth sketch she’s made.

“Jesus, Cobb, why don’t you just tell me what it is exactly you want or, better yet, draw it yourself. You can do that now, can’t you?” Ariadne says in annoyance, kicking her toe at the invisible line she knows better than to cross.

The twitch of hesitation that ever so subtly pulls at his lips, tells her that the chink in his armor is still there. As it turns out, no one’s perfect. But they try their best to get close.

“You can do better than this.” Cobb dismissively waves the drawing at her then crumples it up and adds it to the growing pile of rejections. “_This_ is pedestrian for you.”

Her mouth falls open in disbelief and she glances at Arthur who returns her gaze with an unreadable expression before turning back to his own work.

Looking again at Cobb she raises her arms in mock surrender and sarcastically retorts, “Why don’t you enlighten me Obi Wan?”

Cobb considers her for a few seconds, leaning back in his chair, arms stretched across his chest. Without breaking eye contact, he changes position, angling forward and bracing himself with his arms folded across the top of the table. “You’re not thinking dimensionally. This is flat—,”

“Excuse me! That’s not—,”

“For you it is. When was the last time you went into a dream to create, Ariadne? And I’m not talking about a city street that turns in on itself. I’m talking about real creation?”

She doesn’t answer. His reaction tells her he understands, a fact which doesn’t sit perfectly well with her, yet doesn’t annoy her either.

“Maybe present company has made you complacent?” Cobb jokes to lighten the mood.

Ariadne cracks a small smile (still smarting over his chastising hand slapping—as appropriate as it may be) and Arthur mumbles, “I resent that.”

“Arthur has shown you the necessary tricks of the trade,” Cobb says, his tone taking on a more reverent and wistful edge. “But you have to be constantly manipulating them, twisting them exactly right. It’s one thing to be fantastical in your own head, but not all marks are the same. It’s not about _you_, so when you get bored or lazy it compromises the quality of the vision. It’s about them.”

She thinks on his words. “I have to upgrade my skills by checking my ego at the door.”

“Sounds easy.” Cobb offers a placating shrug. “You think you’re not driven by your ego?”

She can tell he’s intent on making a serious point, but she’s not sure what it has to do with her or the work she’s been trying to do. Of course she’s kept the more outlandish stuff to her own dreams, the jobs they’ve taken on lately don’t necessitate it, but lazy due to some superior sense of self? It’s safe to say she feels insulted by the implication.

“You tell me,” she states with barely hidden agitation.

“When I took you under, when you started creating, you were good—hell, you were better than good. But then it was too much too soon. I told you to be careful, that there were consequences for every action, but you were too busy proving how far you could go, showing off. How did that turn out again?”

An embarrassed blush heats her cheeks and she drops her gaze to the table. She’s not surprised he hasn’t forgotten their early outing. When she looks up he’s staring at her expectantly.

“Mal,” is her quiet reply.

Picking up one of her crumpled drawings, he unfolds it. “Our minds can create,” he says and crushes the drawing up again in his fist, “and destroy. They can go on the offensive and enact a counter-defense. You have to know the rules to break them _just_ right, without getting caught, without drawing too much unwanted attention. But you have to break them all the same.”

Holding his gaze, Ariadne picks up the discarded pencil and presses the tip of her index finger’s nail into it. The pencil is heavy in her hand. “You think I’ve been playing it safe?”

“I know you’re better than good.” He nods. “I know you’re better than great. You’re far better than me and _that’s_ what we need.” As he shifts in his seat, arms back across his chest, he adds, offhandedly, “Half-ass doesn’t measure up.”

She scoffs. “Tell me how you really feel.”

A serious look falls across his features and he sits up straight. “I came to you, all of you, because the Fischer team is the best I’ve ever worked with. That…_this_ is the only team that can do this job.”

He spares a glance at Arthur and Ariadne follows suit. Arthur, ever so focused on the pages in front of him, seems not to notice until he briefly flits his eyes their way. _Always making notes_, Ariadne thinks and can’t help but smile.

“I trust you,” Cobb says and she snaps to attention, finding his unblinking eyes back on her. “The question is, do you trust me?”

She pauses under the intensity of his inquiring gaze pressing down on her, demanding answers, forcing her to pose questions she’s not sure she wants to deal with. There are philosophical morals hanging in the balance and they can only be shoved aside so many times. Trust is a funny word people bandy around without thinking about the implications. Words have meanings for a reason. A person who is true to his word…Cobb and Arthur. She came back to them once before and not just because she wanted to step into Wonderland.

Grabbing her sketchbook she lets out a contemplative sigh and begins to draw.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

  
It’s two weeks after the Fischer job, while Ariadne is back in Halifax, in her childhood family home, on a break from life in general, when Mal first invades her subconscious. It’s not Cobb’s Mal, the shade of his wife that tormented him. Nor is it the woman Ariadne sometimes has trouble believing existed until she sees Cobb and his kids and imagines the woman who would fit into their jigsaw puzzle family.

No, the Mal who appears to Ariadne—not regularly, but enough times to be unnerving—is something in between. In some dreams she’s hard, a red flag siren in human form and she scares Ariadne. In other dreams she’s reflective, not broken, but yearning, thoughtful.

“It’s all fun and games until you can’t remember where one life ends and the next begins,” Mal says with cool detachment, slipping out the shadows and sauntering over to take the seat across from Ariadne. She’s in a taunting mood today.

The bright sun beats down on them in the lush green and spotted technicolour garden at the back of an all too familiar house. Ariadne knows it by chance. Cobb showed it to her once. Mal created it. Cobb told Ariadne not to build from memories. She considers this a gray area—it’s not exactly her memory and she doesn’t seek to make it exist in her subconscious—but doesn’t tell Cobb about it. Ever. Given her own intrusion into his mind during the Fischer job, this is rather hypocritical behavior on her part. She’ll confess her sins later.

Ariadne pulls out her totem and places it on the table between them. She levels Mal with a challenging stare.

“How quaint,” Mal is all coyness. “You still believe that is all it takes.”

“You chose not to know the truth anymore,” Ariadne points out. “_You_ blurred the lines.”

“And you think your precious totem isn’t doing the same? You want to place all your faith in it—but the truth is not so easily defined. You can’t contain it.”

Ariadne’s heart speeds up. She hesitates to reach for the chess piece, stopping with the tip of her finger on the top when Mal speaks again.

“How do you know you’re not dreaming right now? Can you say with certainty your subconscious isn’t filling in the blanks?” Mal drops her eyes to the totem then back up.

“You’re dead,” Ariadne states plainly, unwaveringly. “No more than a remnant of someone else’s imagination.”

“Yet you’re talking to me. And not for the first time. Do you tell Dom about our meetings or are you keeping me all to yourself?” After a considerate pause, Mal leans forward and lowers her voice, conspiratorially. “Have you even told Arthur or is keeping him in the dark an act of protection…or foreplay?”

Ariadne turns away. She stares at the house someone else built.

Mal laughs softly. “The truth is not so easily defined.”

It sounds like she’s saying, _‘The truth is not so easy to defend.’_

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Eames steals her away from a rather frustrating day of model dreamscape construction (nonchalantly swaggering into her “office” and engaging in innocuous—re: misdirecting—conversation before taking hold of her hand and pulling her away with a simple, “All work and no play, sweetheart, makes you no fun,” while Yusuf waves them off and goes back to his experiments). They end up having dinner at an Indian restaurant three blocks away.

They spend most of the evening talking about anything except work. In the process, Eames manages to not only hit on the waitress, but set up a date for the following evening, all without appearing completely rude to Ariadne, which prompts her to say, “You may be the most proficient cad I’ve ever met. They should write a sonnet about you…or a lament.”

Eames laughs and reaches for her hand. “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.”

Ariadne pulls her hand free. “You’re lucky I like that one,” she says affectionately.

Afterwards they grab a drink (coffee for him, hot chocolate for her—he likes his drinks with bite, she hates the bitter taste coating her tongue and prefers something richer, more sentimental, simpler) at a café; sitting on the patio, they watch the city’s nightlife unfold around them.

Breaking away from ‘people watching,’ she observes him for a few seconds, reclining in his seat with his right arm resting along the patio’s railing and his left one casually displayed on the table, delicately toying with his coffee mug. All the while his eyes skip across the flow of people walking by. Presumably sensing he’s the object of her attention, he returns her gaze and quirks a sly smirk.

Ariadne sips her drink. “Thanks for this. I needed it.”

“I’m nothing if not intuitive. You looked like you needed a good defrocking.”

She raises an eyebrow.

Eames runs his hand along the railing then over to the table where he lightly taps the mug’s rim. The movement redirects his full focus on her. The shift in body language is lost on neither.

“You work hard, but I suspect you’re not opposed to playing a little either. I imagine that’s partly why your architectural creations are so inspired. I figured getting you away from all that…static…might allow me a quick peek inside.” He slowly raises the mug to his lips and, not looking away, takes a small sip. “Besides, you being here with me will surely ruffle Arthur’s feathers. That, alone, is well worth it.”

“What is it with you two?” Ariadne asks, interested and adamant to answer a question that’s been on her mind for quite some time.

Eames looks surprised (which surprises her) then mindful, as if his brain is making quick connections she’s not privy to. “Has our boy not been filling you in on all the sordid details of our past? How very mysterious of him.”

With heightened curiosity as to what _that_ means, Ariadne furrows her brow. “All I know is you two met through Cobb on a job and didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on the necessary methods of action.” As the words sound out, she realizes how cryptic it all is. She’s going to need to corner Arthur if Eames proves not to be forthcoming.

“Leave it to Arthur to sum everything up in relation to work. Even his omissions lack a certain style.” Eames chuckles condescendingly.

“He’s not that bad,” Ariadne counters more defensively than intended.

Eames eyes her curiously. “That’s what you say now, but just you wait—,”

“He’s professional.”

“He’s a stick in the mud.”

“Introverted.”

“Dull.”

“I like him just fine!”

The glimmer in Eames’ eyes at her declaration makes her stomach twist. In a second she realizes she’s been set up. The confession isn’t exactly salacious or worth its weight in gossip, but it’s a confession nonetheless that extends far. Eames isn’t an idiot. He can hear everything in her tone—that which she still won’t say out loud to the one person it might matter to most.

“I know you do. No need to try and convince me.” Eames smiles as he slides back in his chair and takes another sip of coffee.

In his crosshairs, she considers how long he’s been watching them—_her_—reading her, waiting to go to work on her psyche. It’s his forte. She’s lucky he didn’t disguise himself as Arthur for this little personal endeavor. Then again she guesses there’s a respect factor behind that.

She’s tempted to tell him to fuck off and flip him the finger, calling it a day, but figures he’d take far too much pleasure in it, seeing her reactionary behaviour as some sort of pat on the back for a metaphorical job well done. Instead she settles for a wry, “You’re good.”

“I’m the best.” In the blink of an eye he’s leaning forward again, closing down the space between them. “But I expected you to put up more of a fight.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she replies, distracted by the realization she’s shared more with Eames than she’s meant to with (almost) anyone on this subject.

He shakes his head. “Not disappointed, just surprised. Those feelings of yours are closer to the surface than I’d have thought.”

Ariadne looks to the street and finishes her hot chocolate, fiddling with the mug then finally pushing it away. “I take it he doesn’t know?”

Eames pulls his chair around the side of the table, moving closer. Turning their space into an undoubtedly intimate one, with the rest of the world uninvited, he says, “If we’re playing truth or dare, I’d say he’s not nearly so clueless as he believes himself to be on the subject. And it’s not nearly as one-sided as you’ve convinced yourself it is.”

“The timing couldn’t be worse and being in the middle of a job doesn’t help. I’m not risking all the work I’ve put in for, what, a chance that might amount to nothing,” she rushes out her second guesses in one quick breath.

“The timing will always be wrong. That’s the lot of this job. So you take what you can, when you can. Arthur knew that once, momentarily forgetting about the pratfalls. As for not taking a risk—that doesn’t sound like you,” Eames argues. “You want to know a secret I’ve learned about since we first met?”

She stares at him expectantly.

“Sometimes you need a little push for a call to action.” He presses a light kiss to her cheek and stands up. “I know a point man who suffers the same affliction, but handles it well enough when needed.”

He holds out his hand to her. She mulls it over.

“When have I ever lied to you?” he asks.

She purses her lips. “You sure you want me to answer that?”

“Intentionally,” he clarifies. “To hurt you?”

This time, she doesn’t hesitate before slipping her hand in his.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Post-“successful”—job celebrations are never actually a round of drinks at a boisterous pub or a group dinner at a nice restaurant. They’re never even a quick post-mortem while everyone cleans up their workstations before heading out.

They’re an awakened nod, a small grin, a silent ‘see you later,’ and everyone disperses. Their work demands they be discrete and invisible; ghosts.

Such is the case that Ariadne makes her way out of the hotel through the main lobby, not making eye contact, but also aware that no one (outside of the team) is watching her. Not knowing when the next “reunion” will be, she takes a deep, thoughtful breath of air and heads to a nearby sushi restaurant. She’s hungry (a dynamic roll is calling her name) and she has a lot on her mind that has nothing to do with the CEO they just cerebrally breached.

She’s so caught up in her own thoughts she doesn’t immediately notice the tall form suddenly to her right, matching her footsteps, keeping the pace. She _senses_ him before she turns her head for confirmation.

Hair combed back, shoulders pulled tight in a straight line across, eyes directed forward, he’s the definition of cool and collected in a three-piece suit. He’s never come with her directly after a finished job. Maybe phoned to do lunch or coffee the next day, but this is different. Ariadne doesn’t want her mind to get ahead of the situation, to the point where she over thinks herself right out of it. In a matter of inconsequential time a new set of perimeters is being renegotiated.

They walk in silence, side-by-side, until Ariadne stops in front of the restaurant. She doesn’t go inside. Rather, she puts her back to it and looks up at him, over to the street, then over to the people walking by, and finally to him again. All the while his gaze never wanders from her.

Without a word she thrusts her hands in her pockets and continues walking, smiling to herself when he follows, to a park situated a block down. She makes her way to an empty bench at the far side with the best view and sits down. When Arthur sits to her right she angles herself towards him. Déjà vu flashes across her body and the memory of a stolen kiss warms her skin and tingles across her lips. She is careful to mute the smile that instinctively skips along her mouth. She’s not ready to share that yet.

Arthur rests his left arm along the back of the bench and fidgets his right hand on his thigh, palming the fabric of his pants, scrunching up the material then flattening it out.

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in thirty seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner?’” Arthur finally breaks the silence.

She meets his searching eyes and nods. The quote sounds familiar, but she can’t place it, certainly not with Arthur staring hard enough to take in every line and angle of her face and commit it to memory.

He nods and looks over his shoulder, then back to her. “It’s a good motto and in this line of work it’s imperative if you want to survive. I don’t get attached…but there are exceptions that pop up.” He pauses. “Dom…Cobb has been the closest thing to one for me and that comes out of a loyalty of friendship since he’s the one who brought me in and changed what I thought my life could be. Of course it makes it easier that it’s never been exactly difficult for him to walk away when needed. Except for—,”

“Mal.”

He points his index finger as if to say, ‘spot on,’ to her observation. “And you’ve seen what that did to him and what it nearly cost the team.”

Ariadne bows under the significance of what he’s telling her, clarifying the mentality necessary to this life they’ve chosen to be part of. It leaves little, if any, room for the long haul beyond the secret society of the crew. She figures she should appreciate his honesty, but finds she can’t, not completely, not right now.

“And then there’s you.”

Surprised, she looks at him with wide eyes. “Me?”

Arthur shifts in his seat, hunching forward, and clasps both hands together between slightly parted legs. He stares at the grass. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re just one of the team. That’s what I’ve tried telling myself since Fischer.” He hangs his head. “Damnit,” he mutters.

Turning, his eyes search hers for some show of consideration, of his not being alone in this. “You really didn’t know?”

She’s flabbergasted, unsure what to say as she struggles to process his meaning, the implication of it all. Her heart pounds out an answer it’s known for quite some time, but kept quiet. “I…just…” She collects her thoughts to try and piece together something coherent. “You’re so set with work as priority number one. Getting you to crack a smile in the process is an accomplishment, like anything I’ve created—even if it is Eames yanking your chain.”

Arthur smirks and rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t…I wasn’t sure,” she adds contemplatively. “We work so close together and it’s familiar, but you’re also always just beyond…”

She mimics his posture while moving a bit closer. Playfully she bumps their shoulders together. “Even when we aren’t talking about the job, you keep a distance. I’m usually good at reading a room, but with you…I convinced myself not to bother reading between the lines.”

“Don’t I sound cold?” Arthur jokes halfheartedly.

“Reserved,” Ariadne is quick to reply. “To be fair, I only had Eames to compare you with and he’s at the other end of the spectrum. He wears a flashing strobe light heart on his sleeve.”

Arthur pulls up straight and leans back against he bench. A tiny smile curls up the corners of his lips. “It’s easier for him.”

Ariadne sits back. “I think you make it harder for yourself.”

“Because I’m _trying_ to make it easier.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“Like a charm, can’t you tell?”

She regards him for a second, taking in the very real sight of his uncertainty being pushed aside, not out of resignation but decisiveness, troubling as it may be.

“But you’re here now,” she says.

“Flawed logic gave way to self-aware fallibility.”

“You’re not weak.”

“No, but…” he presses into her personal space. “I have a weakness.”

“Arthur,” Ariadne whispers.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quickly without apology. Clearing his throat, like flipping a coin, he scoots away and says more firmly, “Professionally speaking it’s only fair you know, that way for any future jobs we may work together you don’t need to concern yourself with any issues that arise from my—,”

“Hold up!” Ariadne grabs his arm. “And here I thought I was the over thinker destined to get ahead of myself.”

Arthur narrows his eyes questioningly.

“Do I get a chance to have _my_ say before you make the decision for how we work together?” She watches understanding and a light flush of discomfort for his rash behavior flash across his face. Point taken.

“Since Fischer?” she asks incredulously. “If I’d known…” She inches to the right, again closing the space between them. “You know if you’d told me sooner it would have saved us both a lot of second guessing.”

Taking a deep breath, Ariadne closes her eyes for a moment to focus on the heat of Arthur’s body, his arm still in her grip, the nearness of him and the faint scent of a subtle cologne overridden by trace amounts of generic soap and _him_.

Opening her eyes she finds him watching her. “As much as I appreciate your insistence on respectable boundaries, this isn’t only your call to make.”

He tilts his head inquiringly. They both hear the silent question being posed.

“Since Fischer,” she states definitively.

He smiles to himself then reins it in, waiting, listening.

“I don’t need you to protect me out of some misguided act of chivalry. I’d rather know how you feel.” She takes a chance and pushes closer, mindful of the fact he isn’t pulling away.

“Ariadne,” he tries to explain.

“Cobb and Mal’s story is not ours,” she cuts him off, running her hand along his arm and threading their fingers together. She hears his sharp intake of breath. “Never was. I know they’re a morality tale, but there’s a difference between taking a lesson from the past and being imprisoned by it. When I build, I take what was there before and reinvent it with new eyes. The tangible aspect is similar, but it’s its own creation, in its own right. You know, Eames has a point. You need to be able to think outside of the box to see what’s possible. I’ve seen you do it on the job, in the heat of the moment, with bullets flying and projections closing in…and once upon a time you gave it a shot with me.”

She places a soft kiss on his lips. It’s light enough that the touch is just a hint of, ‘what if,’ and where she anticipated this moment before in daydreams that got away from her and expected her heart racing and palms sweating, the reality is quite different. Yes, the thrill pounds her heart, but not too fast. It’s steady yet loud and she’s sure Arthur can hear it beating in her chest. Anxiousness does not turn her inside out. She’s in the calm center of the exhilarating storm and it wraps around her like home.

Seconds pass and she smiles against his lips, feels him do the same. He squeezes her hand.

She pulls back enough to whisper against his mouth, “I have an Achilles Heel too.”

Hesitations be damned. Second guesses go out the window. Caution is for those who let fear call all the shots. They’ve never been those people in other aspects of their lives, why should this be any different?

She kisses him again. Harder.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

It’s plain as day.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Less experienced chess players underestimate the bishop. They see it as a weaker player, restricted in its movements and capability. Those in the know are more respectful. They know the bishop gains strength as the match goes on, with the endgame in its sights. Facades and pretext aside, the bishop can make or break, stand or fall. It sees the bigger picture for good or bad.

It’s become a bit of a habit for Ariadne, reaching for her totem, clutching the bishop in her hand or tipping it over.

It’s not so much being unable to distinguish dreams from reality but she’s come to liken it to a safety blanket, an object of comfort that anchors her. She hasn’t admitted to anyone (including Arthur) that there are moments (fleeting thoughts though they may be) where she imagines that without it she’d simply detach and fly away into nothingness. Memories of limbo _do_ linger at the corners of her mind, dark and faded, yet always there.

But she doesn’t let these take a permanent foothold or etch a deep scar beneath her skin. Instead she heeds them as a lesson to keep going, re-imagining and rebuilding. Cobb has his suspicions, she’s sure, has seen it in the way his gaze rests on her, and not out of the same volition as Arthur’s does. The notion doesn’t come as a surprise and unlike her own unsolicited trip into his mind to uncover secrets left unsaid for too long, she’s thankful he doesn’t press the issue with her.

The good outweighs the unknown—

A job well done…

The smile Arthur saves for her and only her…

A team (whether she’s with them or they’re scattered around the globe on other jobs, with their other lives) that feels of belonging…

Arthur’s hand against the small of her back…

A limitless life in which creation is its own reward and there are no naysayers crushing her down…

Arthur below her, naked and laughing, running his hands up her torso, along her shoulders, the line of her collarbone, sweeping her hair up and off her shoulders, pulling her closer…

Developing and earning a respectable reputation for her nearly unparalleled work that precedes her in various quarters, makes her sought out…

Conversations with Arthur (late night, mid afternoon, early morning) that run the gamut from A to Z, sometimes challenging, other times lighthearted, always thoughtful, always removing a bit more of the protective barrier both built up initially, meant to keep bits of the world at bay…

Knowing people have her back and will fight for her; knowing she would do the same for any of them…

Arthur, the unexpected straight laced cipher, _seeing_ her, opening up to her…

The totem is a half story, a dream is one of many glimpses; reality has its own set of changing rules. There are many things she can’t say for certain and some that come close. Ariadne may pick and choose or roll the dice, let the cards fall where they may, then stack them high, recreated in her mind’s eye.

She makes a choice everyday and lives with it, with no—or at least few—regrets.

Pull the bishop out, feel its edges, its weight, think about what’s missing and what’s not.

It’s a metaphor—a key, the North Star compass pointing home.

It’s an object—brass, half hollowed so not to be as heavy as it appears, smooth along certain curves and hard lines upon strong edges.

It’s a lifeline of a memory, permeating subconscious white noise; it’s a chess piece.

Ariadne sees the levels of meaning within it, not all apparent to the naked eye, but still there no matter what. She lives a life of half-truths, but not lies. Even a forgery is still based on some semblance of authenticity. They are truths not fully fathomed or reconciled.

When she considers what all of it says about her, she is comforted by the knowledge her story is incomplete. _Everything_ is a work-in-progress. _Everything_ can change or remain the same. Staying the course is _not_ the same as being stuck. Trusting herself is the hard sell, but well worth it.

Ariadne understands that now.

She believes it.


End file.
